


Putting the Pieces Back Together

by BubbleGumLizard



Series: Mystrade NaNoWriMo 2015 [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Greg is Sweet, Heavy Angst, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubbleGumLizard/pseuds/BubbleGumLizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes finally agrees to go on a date with Greg Lestrade.  Meanwhile, John and Sherlock have some serious things to discuss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what to say about this. It's more angst, because apparently that's what I write best (or most fluently).
> 
> There isn't actually rape in this, but there are mentions of past rape, so I thought it was best to tag it.
> 
> Also, there's Johnlock! I generally prefer to write Mystrade, because I think I write those characters better, but I haven't been reading any new fics and I missed my angsty Johnlock, so I needed to write some.

Greg smoothed his hair down nervously. He had been wanting to go on a date with Mycroft Holmes for years and this was finally his chance. After years of rejecting his advances, Mycroft had sent him a text asking him out for coffee. Greg had agreed, but then a case had come up and he hadn’t had time to go home and change his clothes. He was afraid that if he postponed Mycroft might get cold feet, so he decided to just go without the nice clothes he had picked out, in his work clothes.

The first time he had asked Mycroft out, the man seemed completely taken aback.

“What?” he asked, looking at Greg suspiciously.

“I asked if you might like to go on a date with me some time. You know, dinner, drinks, something?”

“Why would you want that?”

“Why…? Well, I think you’re physically attractive and intellectually interesting and I’d like to know you better.” Greg had been sure that he had said something wrong, because Mycroft had stared at him for a moment and then walked away. 

Greg had been so confused about it that he had asked Sherlock what had been wrong.

Sherlock looked like he had been punched in the gut. “Mycroft doesn’t date.”

“Why not?”

“Not my place to tell. But you should keep trying.” His voice was soft and Greg was sure that he was seeing a side of Sherlock that most people never saw, a side that really cared about Mycroft.

So Greg had asked ever few months. Nothing too extreme, just a simple, “Feel like having that date yet?” every few times they saw each other.

Every time, Mycroft said no, or rather, he walked wordlessly out of the room and never answered. Greg never gave up. He dated other people, of course, but those relationships always ended and Greg asked Mycroft again.

This last time, eight years after the first question, Greg had expected the usual response. He had even turned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk, expecting Mycroft to show himself out. Instead, Mycroft cleared his throat and Greg looked up, surprised.

“Yes. I will go on a date with you. Coffee, Friday night, seven o’clock. I will text you a location.” He left the room before Greg could react.

Now it was Friday and Greg was nervously awaiting the date. He arrived at the coffee shop five minutes early and was unsurprised to see Mycroft waiting for him.

He smiled warmly as he approached. Mycroft looked like he was being forced to be there. “Hello!” Greg said cheerfully, sitting next to Mycroft at the small table. “I’m really glad you agreed to do this.”

Mycroft nodded. “Before we go any further, I wanted to ask what you want out of this.”

“Want out of this?”

“Yes. A relationship? Sex?”

“I’m not really a casual sex type of person. I like to wait until I’m in a relationship for things like that. If anything, I want a relationship.”

“Good, good. Before we get involved in any way, there’s something you need to know. Look up a file on Roger Berry. There will be some interesting information in there for you.” He stood like he was going to leave.

“Why so cloak and dagger about it?”

“It will be clear when you see the file.” He turned and left, leaving Greg sitting there alone, watching him.

Greg hurried back to his office to look up the file. He found information on Roger Berry, beginning twenty years earlier and ending fifteen years earlier. When he pulled up the picture, he was surprised to see that he was looking at a young Mycroft Holmes.

Not only that, the man in the picture had been severely beaten. He had bruises all over his face and he looked like he had a broken nose. Greg read the entire file. It seems that this man, Roger Berry, had been the victim of domestic abuse.

When Greg reached the end, the last incident listed, he felt sick. This man had been kept locked in a basement for nearly a week, starved, tortured, and repeatedly raped. Finally, the man’s supervisor in the government office for which Berry worked called the police enough times that they stormed the house and found Berry near death.

The man’s partner was nowhere to be found, having fled the area. There was no more mention of Berry anywhere. Greg stared at the last page of the file for what seemed like hours. Eventually, someone knocked on the door. He looked up to see Mycroft standing in the doorway awkwardly.

“You know, then,” he said softly.

Greg nodded. He pointed to the chair across the desk from him. “Have a seat. You haven’t dated since?”

Mycroft shook his head sadly. “He was my first relationship. We started dating when I was seventeen and we were together ten years. The abuse was only during the second half. Well, the abuse that I reported.”

“I understand why you don’t date.” Greg was choosing his words carefully. He was still interested in Mycroft and he was sure that he could deal with any special circumstances. “I am interested in you romantically. I would like to date you.”

“Even knowing all of this?”

Greg nodded. “My interest in you is based on you, not your past. I have my own issues, I’m sure you have yours.”

“Mine are a bit more extreme than the average.”

“Mycroft, everything about you is a bit more extreme than the average.” The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitched a bit, which Greg took as him returning Greg’s teasing smile.

“I’m not sure if I’m interested in sex. I haven’t felt that sort of desire in a long time.”

“Life isn’t about sex. I’ve always felt like you and I have a connection. From the first moment I saw you, I felt like I understood you. I want to spend time with you as a person, not just your body.”

Mycroft looked like he could burst into tears at any moment, a very strange look on Mycroft, who was always so controlled.

“I’m different in my personal life. More vulnerable.”

“I’ll never purposely hurt you. You know me. It’s been years. You know I could never do anything intentional to cause you pain.”

Mycroft nodded. “I do know you. That’s why I’m considering this. It’s been fifteen years since it happened and I haven’t had a date. You keep asking and Sherlock keeps telling me how wonderful you are.” Greg let that sink in for a moment: he never expected to have Sherlock telling anyone he was wonderful, let alone his brother. “I’ve felt the connection as well. You and I complement each other very well. It is still terrifying to think that I might put myself in that position again.”

“I don’t want to cause you any stress. I want to be with you, but if thinking about it is too much, let me know.”

“I want to date you. A real date, not like tonight.”

“Wonderful. Did you have anything in mind or would you like me to plan it?”

“You may plan it.” Mycroft stood, nodding at Greg. “I await your text with the details.”

Greg remained at his desk after Mycroft left, doing some work. He heard his office door open again and Sherlock walked in, sitting down across from him.

“I know of several different acids that can completely dissolve a body within a few days. Interesting, isn’t it?”

Greg grinned. “Very interesting. Incidentally, I will be going on a date with your brother.”

“Oh? I had no idea.” Sherlock seemed disinterested, but there was an intensity to his eyes that Greg had never seen before. It looked almost protective.

“He’s safe with me, Sherlock. I’ll never hurt him. Physically or otherwise.”

“I know you won’t, Lestrade. But in case something changes, just know that I’m here in case you do.”

Greg chuckled as he left. Sherlock was perhaps the last person he expected to hear the “hurt him and I’ll kill you” speech from. Perhaps from Mycroft’s assistant, but not Sherlock.

Just then, his phone chimed.

**Hurt him and I’ll kill you. Anthea**

Greg chuckled and stood, going home for the night. He was happy that Mycroft had so many people looking out for him.

***

Greg picked out the best restaurant he knew: a romantic, intimate Italian place with enough light that you could see your surroundings clearly. He wanted to make sure that Mycroft was completely comfortable. He was amazed that after all these years Mycroft had made the decision to trust Greg enough to date him. He felt like he needed to make sure that he didn’t mess it up. 

Of course, Mycroft knew Greg and knew what kind of person he was. They had a friendly relationship that spanned several years and they had spent quite a bit of time together. Whether going out for dinner to discuss Sherlock’s drug use, or meeting in each other’s office to discuss a case that went particularly well or poorly, they had both always enjoyed their meetings. That was why Greg had thought they would do so well together romantically. Now that he knew about Mycroft’s history, he was even more convinced that he was the man for Mycroft.

Greg did a final check in the mirror, picked up the single red rose he had bought, and set off for the restaurant. It was close to his flat, so he had the opportunity to walk, which would settle his nerves. When he arrived at the restaurant, Mycroft’s black car was outside. The window rolled down a few inches and he smiled at Anthea, who narrowed her eyes at him before rolling the window back up. He supposed that he should be nervous to know that he was being watched by her and who knew how many security people, but he was really just happy that Mycroft had people to watch over him.

He walked into the restaurant and to the table he had reserved, where he smiled and held the rose out to Mycroft, who rose to greet him. After Greg handed him the rose, Mycroft seemed to freeze. Greg just smiled and held out his hand.

“Good evening,” he said with a smile, pressing the hand that Mycroft gave him warmly.

“Good evening.” Mycroft sat back down and Greg did the same, smiling nervously. “Have you eaten here before?” Mycroft asked, looking around.

“Oh, yes. It’s one of my favorite restaurants. It’s close to my flat.” He saw a look of panic pass through Mycroft’s eyes and chuckled. “I’m not inviting you back or anything. I come here a lot because it’s convenient.”

Mycroft nodded, but he didn’t relax at all. “Forgive me. I feel a bit foolish admitting this, but I have never been on a first date before. When my relationship with… when my previous relationship began, I was at university and our relationship was inappropriate, so we did not go into public together.”

Greg nodded. “Well, I have been on far too many first dates for my liking. I’ve never been a big fan of the getting-to-know-you chatter. You and I won’t need much of that talk, though. We know each other quite well already.”

Mycroft nodded. “Then what do we discuss?”

“Well, I like to stay away from work discussions or anything too serious. There’s always books, television, movies, that sort of thing.”

“I’m afraid we won’t have much in common there.”

“I usually don’t with people. Other than the odd sporting match, I don’t watch much television or movies. I read quite a bit, chiefly non-fiction.”

Mycroft stared at him. “What kind of non-fiction?”

“Mostly history. I quite enjoy military history.”

A light that Greg had never before seen came into Mycroft’s eyes and he began talking excitedly about a book he was reading. Surprised, Greg realized that he had just finished the same book. They talked animatedly about the book until the waiter came to take their order and they realized that neither of them had looked at the menu.

When the waiter left after they hastily made their selections, Mycroft smiled the most genuine smile Greg had ever seen on his face. “I had no idea that we enjoyed the same reading material.”

“I didn’t either,” Greg told him, shaking his head. “Very few people in my life share that passion.”

“You’re not the only one. I always had to sit through Christmas dinners with Sherlock prattling on about his chemistry books. The fool never cared one jot for our country’s illustrious military history.”

“Ah, so that’s the knowledge I can use to embarrass him.”

Mycroft’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Greg had never seen him so sincerely amused and he liked it. It was incredibly sexy that Mycroft responded to him that way.

“You have a very sexy smile,” Greg murmured before he realized that the compliment might be unwelcome. Mycroft stiffened slightly and then looked down at the table, his smile fading. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have said---”

“No, no. It was a compliment, a very nice one,” Mycroft interrupted him, looking back up. “I will try to react better in future.”

“You don’t need to try to react any way. You react how you react. If anything, you need to work on the underlying reason that you react badly. In any case, you shouldn’t do it for me, you should do it for you.”

Mycroft smiled again. “I am doing this for me. It’s been far too long that I have lived as a shadow of a man because of what happened. There’s a man I trust, a good man, an incredibly attractive man, who wants to date me. I would be a fool to deny myself a relationship any longer. At least, that’s what the rational part of my brain says. The part that can realize my fears are silly.”

Greg put his hand in the middle of the table so that Mycroft could hold it if he liked. “Your fears aren’t silly. They’re founded in things that happened. Letting them affect your life to that degree may be silly, but having them is certainly not.”

Mycroft looked at him for a moment and then reached out and slid his hand into Greg’s. Greg smiled at him, squeezing his hand gently.

“Very few people see my situation that way.” Mycroft looked away, but he didn’t pull his hand away, so Greg was happy.

“Perhaps I’m special. Or perhaps I just understand that you need to heal after something traumatic like that and everyone heals at different rates.”

“Who was it?” Mycroft’s eyes suddenly bored into Greg and he had a sudden feeling that Mycroft was reading his mind.

He knew that Mycroft wasn’t actually reading his mind, but what he was doing was close enough that Greg called it that in his own head. They were friendly enough that Mycroft didn’t normally use his talent for reading people so intensely on Greg and it made

Greg feel uncomfortable.

Greg tried to make his face neutral, but Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Greg knew that there was no hope for it. “My birth parents. My father abused my mother my entire childhood.”

It wasn’t something that Greg normally spoke about, but he supposed that Mycroft was as safe a person as any to tell. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t find the information out if he wanted to, so Greg might as well be candid.

“And he eventually abused you?” The gaze was softened, but Mycroft was still reading him.

Greg closed his eyes. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Mycroft. “I’m not sure if you saw this when you did whatever background check you did on me when I first met Sherlock. I hid it as well as I could.”

Mycroft took the paper and read over it. It was a report about an incident involving a young man, thirteen years old, who had been beaten and left for dead by his father. The name was crossed out with a heavy pen.

“The name was offensive to you?”

“That boy had his father’s name. He ceased to exist that day.”

“And the new name?”

“You know that,” Greg said, and Mycroft nodded. “You know I was taken in by a lovely couple when I was fifteen and that I took their name as soon as I was able.”

“You understand how I feel.”

“Not entirely. I didn’t experience quite everything that you experienced.”

“I wasn’t betrayed by blood.”

“I never loved the man who did that to me.” Greg held tightly to Mycroft’s hand, happy that he had something comforting to ground him. “I have no fear about that happening again. My father — the man I consider my father, who adopted me as a teenager — could never hurt me like that. Even if he wanted to, I’m an adult now. I don’t have that sort of fear. I don’t understand that. I see it, now, on the rare occasion that I visit my mother.”

“She should have protected you.”

Greg shrugged. “I suppose she did the best that she could. That’s what she tells herself, anyway. I have a real mother, a woman who would do anything for me, even though she didn’t give birth to me and she didn’t meet me until I was a teenager. I’m lucky.”

“Your attitude about this is odd to me. You aren’t angry or scared. You accept it.”

“It happened. There isn’t anything I can do about it. Being angry won’t change it. Being scared will do nothing for me. I can’t see why I would be either of those things.”

Mycroft hesitated, unsure whether he should say what he said next. “You’re angry about what happened to me.”

“Yes.”

“You’d hurt the man who did it, if you could.”

“Yes.”

“You’d kill him?”

Greg didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Understandable, being angry. You’re a protector. Since you started trying to protect your mother as a child, you have always protected people. That’s obvious, anyone who knows your history could tell you that. Why so angry to kill, though? You aren’t a fan of violence, that’s clear. Why has that man in particular earned your wrath?”

“You are the most exceptional man I have ever known, Mycroft Holmes. I cannot imagine what being inside your head is like. Anyone who can see how amazing you are and want to destroy it has my eternal hatred.” Greg didn’t normally make such strong statements, but he felt spurred to be honest, to let the anger inside of him out. Since he had learned about Mycroft’s past, a fire of hatred had been kindling inside him, hatred for someone who could harm a beautiful creature like Mycroft.

Mycroft was looking at Greg in a very curious way as Greg gave his little speech. Greg couldn’t define the emotion exactly. Admiration? Respect? Love, even? Whatever it was, Mycroft was pleased about what Greg had said.

He opened his mouth to say something, but at just that moment their food arrived and Mycroft’s attention was diverted. They pulled their hands apart to begin eating and the intense few moments of conversation were over.

As they ate, they continued their earlier conversation about books. They had read many of the same books and enjoyed the same authors. They had some recommendations for each other that they discussed as well, a conversation which gave them both a great deal of joy.

When they finished their meal, they exited the restaurant to see Mycroft’s car still sitting there. “Has Anthea been here this whole time?” Greg asked with a grin.

“It’s likely. She is a bit protective of me.”

“That’s good. You need someone to look after you.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Mycroft was standing much closer to Greg than he expected this evening. “So you said your flat was nearby?” Mycroft asked before Greg could answer his previous question.

“Just down the road.”

“I thought perhaps we might go back there, if that’s acceptable to you.” Mycroft seemed nervous and hastily qualified what he had suggested. “I’m not suggesting anything untoward, I thought we might continue our book conversation.”

“That would be nice. Perhaps you should let your shadow know.” Greg nodded at the car and Mycroft smiled, going over to explain what was happening.

There appeared to be some sort of minor argument, which Mycroft won. He returned to Greg and gestured down the street. “Lead the way.”

As they walked, Greg was surprised by Mycroft slipping his hand into Greg’s. Greg smiled and held it, pleased with how things were progressing on the date. He was a bit disappointed now at how short the walk was. He would have enjoyed to hold Mycroft’s hand for quite a bit longer.

Greg let them into the flat, which he was quite proud of. It was small, but it was in a good location and it was his favorite place in the world. As he turned the light on, he watched Mycroft’s face to see what his reaction was. Mycroft didn’t disappoint. He looked around the room, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, clearly surprised.

Greg had lined the walls with bookshelves that were filled with books. There were thousands of books in the small flat, making it look more like a library than a home. One door lead to the tiny kitchen and another to the bedroom, with a loo beyond that. Greg went into the kitchen to put the kettle on while Mycroft started looking at the titles on the walls.

“You really do like to read.”

Chuckling, Greg stood in the doorway and watched Mycroft look at his collection. “Books always helped me escape in a way that television never could. They were very important to me.”

“You never wanted to escape in fiction?”

“Not particularly. I wanted to be in the real world. There was no chance of me doing anything in fictional worlds. Plenty of chances for me to do things in the real world. Books like these made me think that I could become something.”

“You have become something. It’s inspiring how far you’ve come.”

“Oh yes. Middle aged, single, and living in a tiny library.” Greg laughed, disappearing to sort the tea.

“You forgot devastatingly handsome,” Mycroft called. Greg could hear the smile in his voice and he liked it.

“I thought I just told you that I don’t enjoy fiction.”

He went back into the living room with the tea, setting the cups on the side table that sat between the two chairs next to the fireplace. Mycroft was looking at him with that look again, the one that Greg couldn’t define. Greg shrugged it off, assuming that he would figure it out some day and began to light a fire.

“You have a very cozy home, here.” Mycroft picked up his cup of tea, prepared just the way he liked it, and sat down in one of the chairs, correctly guessing the chair that Greg preferred and leaving it open for him.

“I like to think so. After a long day of chasing criminals, it is very nice to come home to a warm fire and a nice book.”

“A book about warfare.”

“Warfare can be very relaxing. As long as our side won.” Greg took his tea and settled into his chair.

They were close enough that they could hold hands if they wanted, but far enough apart that they weren’t forced into contact. The problem with it was that there was no opportunity for accidental contact, but Greg wasn’t sure that Mycroft was ready for accidental contact, so he decided it was best to avoid it.

They sat there for over two hours, talking. Eventually, Mycroft stretched and looked at his watch. “It’s rather late.”

“Would you like to stay the night?” Greg asked impulsively. He hadn’t been planning on anything like that, but it was past midnight. “I don’t mean to do anything inappropriate. Just…it’s been nice talking to you and I don’t want it to end.” He blushed, feeling awkward.

Mycroft smiled. “That would be nice. I would like to stay and continue the conversation.” He pulled out his phone and sent off a text. “There, that should worry Anthea appropriately.”

Greg grinned. “She’s going to hate me.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt that she already does.”

They returned to their conversation. By the time they decided that they should go to sleep, it was nearly three in the morning. 

It occurred to Greg that he hadn’t considered sleeping arrangements. He didn’t have a couch to sleep on, so it looked like he would be on the floor. “You take the bed, I’ll be in here,” he said, retrieving a spare blanket and pillow from his linen closet.

“We can share the bed,” Mycroft said, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“It has been a very long time since I shared a bed with someone. It might be nice…” he trailed off, looking away.

Greg smiled and pulled two sets of pajamas out of a drawer, handing one to Mycroft. “Here, these should mostly fit. The loo is through there.” He pointed, slipping into the kitchen to change into his own pajamas. He was grateful that he had received the pajamas as presents at Christmas. He didn’t normally wear pajamas, preferring to sleep nude or only in his pants, which may have been awkward with Mycroft.

When he returned to the bedroom, Mycroft was looking at the pictures on the wall. Greg had filled his bedroom with pictures of his parents, the Lestrades. “They look lovely,” Mycroft told him, pausing at a picture of Greg’s first Christmas with them.

“They are lovely. I was very angry when I moved in with them. They helped me deal with my anger and direct it toward something constructive.” Greg smiled at the picture fondly. “They made me the man I am today.”

“I’m glad. I’d like to meet them some day.”

“I would like that. Mum would love you. She would fuss over you, that’s how she always is with people I introduce to her.”

“They don’t have a problem with you dating men?”

“No. My birth mother does, but I don’t have a particularly high opinion of her taste in partners, so I guess we’re even.” He grinned broadly.

“Did you always use humor to cover up the pain?”

Greg didn’t let his grin waver. He just chuckled, nodding. “Yes. It helps me.”

Mycroft looked at him curiously, as if there were something about Greg that he couldn’t quite figure out. “We should go to sleep.”

Greg climbed into his side of the bed, feeling a bit awkward as Mycroft lay on the other side. He was aching to reach out and hold Mycroft, to wrap his arms around the other man and tell him that everything was going to be okay now that he was there, that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt Mycroft ever again. He thought it might be a bad idea, however, so he held himself back.

Just as he was falling asleep, he heard a small voice from beside him. “Thank you for being so wonderful.”

“Thank you for being you,” Greg responded, opening his eyes. In the darkness, he couldn’t see Mycroft, but he could feel his presence.

“I am normally very anxious sleeping in a new place, but I feel safe here.”

“I’m glad. I enjoy having you here.”

Mycroft’s hand reached over and rested on Greg’s arm. “I feel safe with you.”

“You are safe with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Mycroft shifted closer and buried his face in Greg’s chest. Greg wrapped his arm around Mycroft’s back and let it sit there, not quite holding him in place, but encircling him with his strong arm. Greg remembered how safe he had felt when his mother held him after he was adopted and he wanted to give Mycroft a similar feeling. It must have worked, because in a few moments, he heard light snoring coming from his chest as Mycroft slept peacefully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically, this takes place in the middle of the last chapter. Hopefully that's clear in the chapter.

John Watson was miserable. Nothing had been the same since he came back to 221B Baker Street after his divorce. Sherlock was there, as always, and they worked on cases, John letting his work performance slip again as he chased Sherlock all over London instead of worrying about his responsibilities. How it was when he and Sherlock were alone, however, was completely different. Before, they would joke and laugh, John would make tea, and their fingers would linger on each other’s when he handed Sherlock the cup.

Now, John made tea and set it next to Sherlock. He tried to never hand Sherlock anything. He didn’t touch Sherlock, no matter what was happening. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was afraid of what he would do if he let himself touch his beautiful flatmate or if it was because he was still angry about those lost years, for which he blamed Sherlock.

“Lestrade and Mycroft are going on a date on Saturday,” Sherlock said out of nowhere, startling John out of his line of thinking. John was sitting in his chair and Sherlock was lying on the couch, staring at nothing, making John assume he was in his mind palace.

“What?”

“Lestrade has been trying to get Mycroft to date him for years. Mycroft finally agreed.”

“I wasn’t aware that Greg was interested in men.” John frowned. He had always considered Greg a good friend. Why wouldn’t he tell John about that?

“It’s obvious that he is. His attraction to Mycroft is easy to see.”

“Why hasn’t Mycroft said yes before now?”

Sherlock gave a long sigh. “His last partner was abusive. Extremely abusive. I suppose there’s some feeling that stopped him from accepting a date. Silly, to let that stop him. Lestrade clearly has a need to protect people, not hurt people.”

John thought for a moment. He felt like he was being given a chance to ask something that he had always wondered, but had been afraid to ask. “Why don’t you date? You flirt for cases, but I’ve never seen you go on a date of your own. Are you asexual?”

Sherlock sat up and turned to look at John. “Why are you asking?”

“I’m curious. We’re friends. You’ve seen me go on dates, you’ve seen me get married. I’ve never seen you express any kind of interest. When we first met, you told me that you were married to your work, but that doesn’t seem very fulfilling.”

“Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock said softly. He looked sad and John wasn’t sure why.

“That sounds like some bollocks that Mycroft would say. You care. You care about Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. You even care about Greg, even though you refuse to use his first name.”

“You missed someone.”

“Me?” Sherlock gave a short nod. “Of course you care about me. I know that without it being said.”

Sherlock gave a smile, one of those little, pleased smiles that John only saw when the two of them were alone, the sort of smile that had become very rare since Sherlock had come back from being dead, one of the things that John missed about before. John smiled back, his mood bolstered by the pleasant moment.

“I have met very few people in my life that I might consider dating,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“And have you dated any of those people?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I nearly dated one, but the situation with Mycroft and his former partner dissuaded me from beginning a relationship.”

“And the others?”

“Other. Just one. He has been unavailable.”

He. So Sherlock was interested in men. A small part of John jumped at what Sherlock said, thinking that perhaps he was talking about John, but that would be silly. Sherlock had never shown the slightest interest in John; to think that he would now confess to some sort of attraction would be ridiculous. John didn’t believe in fairy tales.

“Is he still unavailable?”

“I’m not sure. He seems to be.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” It hurt John to suggest that Sherlock should ask someone on a date, but he wanted Sherlock to be happy.

“You want me to start dating someone?” Sherlock seemed confused and maybe a little upset.

John looked at his hands. “I just want you to be happy, Sherlock.”

“Like you were happy with Mary?”

John took a deep breath. He had thought he was happy with Mary, but it had all been a lie. “No. I want you to be really happy. Not to be settling for someone who isn’t…” he trailed off, realizing with horror that he had come awfully close to letting something slip that he wasn’t ready to say.

“Who isn’t what?”

John stood, feeling like he couldn’t breathe. He needed to get out of the conversation. “It’s late. I should go to bed.”

“Wait. What were you saying?” Sherlock demanded, jumping up.

John was already halfway to his bedroom, He mumbled something else about it being late and ignored Sherlock’s questions, shutting himself in his bedroom. He turned as he shut the door and leaned against it, sliding down into a sitting position and putting his head in his hands. He needed to stop being such an idiot. He was going to ruin everything.

He couldn’t lose Sherlock again.

***

Later that night, John woke up from his usual nightmare about Sherlock jumping to his death. This time when he woke up, however, he wasn’t alone. He jumped up into a sitting position when he realized that there was someone in the room with him.

“What were you dreaming about?” Sherlock asked, sitting down on the end of the bed and looking at the floor.

“What, Sherlock?”

“What were you dreaming about?”

John was slightly annoyed. He didn’t think his dreams were Sherlock’s business. The intrusive git would probably only leave after John answered him, though, so he decided to answer instead of argue. “I was dreaming about when you killed yourself.” There, that was sure to cause a splash, even with Sherlock.

Sherlock said something so quietly that John couldn’t understand what he was saying.

“What?”

“You were crying.” Sherlock stood and John thought he was going to leave. Instead, he knelt by the bed, next to where John was sitting. “Why were you crying?”

“You know why I was crying, Sherlock.”

“No, I know why you were crying when it happened. I know why you were crying after it happened. But I’ve been back for over a year. Why are you still crying about it?”

“You being back doesn’t stop it from being painful.” If John didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Sherlock had tears in his eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

Ah, that explains the tears. Sherlock always hated not understanding things. It frustrated him.

“It’s an emotion thing. You wouldn’t understand it, Sherlock.”

“But you left me. You were happy without me. You shouldn’t have emotions about that anymore.”

“What?” John asked, surprised. He turned on the light so he could clearly see Sherlock’s face. “I was certainly not happy without you!”

“You got married. And I ruined it.” Sherlock didn’t seem to be talking to John anymore, it was more like he was talking to himself or the skull.

“You didn’t ruin anything Sherlock. If anything, you saved me from a lifetime with the wrong person. Sherlock, look at me.” At John’s commanding voice, Sherlock looked up. He looked completely miserable. “I was miserable without you. I did the best I could, which involved dating Mary and marrying her. I didn’t know what to do when you came back. I was ready to marry her and then you were there and I made the wrong decision. I should have immediately come home to you. I’ve only ever been truly happy with you.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You should have been happy with your pretty little wife in your perfect home.”

John laughed humorlessly. “Nothing about our life makes sense, Sherlock. But it makes me happy. That’s why I’m here.”

“Then why do you cry in your sleep every night?”

“Because when I’m asleep, I forget that you’ve come back. And I’m there, stuck watching you fall again. That was the worst moment of my life and I want more than anything to forget it, but I can’t help but relive it every night.”

“The worst moment of your life?”

“What else could compete?” John knew that Sherlock was thinking of when John was shot in Afghanistan, but John could honestly say that he would rather be shot than watch Sherlock die again.

“Oh.” Sherlock didn’t say anything else, he just sat there, looking at John.

“Maybe you’re right and caring isn’t an advantage,” John said eventually. “But if I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have what little happiness I have.”

Sherlock’s cheeks colored slightly. John bit his lip, worried again that he had gone too far. “I am glad you are my friend, John.” Sherlock reached out and gripped John’s hand.

John sighed and pulled Sherlock to him in a hug. The positioning was weird, since Sherlock was kneeling on the floor and John was sitting in the bed, but it gave John a chance to bury his face in Sherlock’s curls and breathe his smell in, which he did without thinking. If Sherlock noticed, which he did without a doubt (he was Sherlock, after all), he didn’t say anything. When John released him he nodded at John and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

John fell back onto his bed, feeling like he didn’t know what was happening in his life. Everything was confusing. The only thing he knew for sure was that he needed to stay with Sherlock. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost Sherlock again.

***

The next morning, John wasn’t sure if he dreamed the conversation in the middle of the night. It seemed unreal, having such a frank conversation with Sherlock about things. They were more the stiff upper lip type than the type to get up in the middle of the night and have a conversation about feelings, so it didn’t seem real.

When he went downstairs, fully dressed and ready for work, Sherlock was working on an experiment at the table. John made tea, saying nothing beyond a greeting, deciding that he would let Sherlock take the lead in their conversation.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, they spent the rest of the morning in silence. When John returned home from work, Sherlock was in the same spot, working on the same experiment. Other than noise that they made doing things around the flat, they spent the entire night in silence.

John wasn’t sure if he had said something wrong the night before, if that’s why Sherlock wasn’t talking. It was hard to tell, because there were times when Sherlock was silent because he was wrapped up in an experiment or thinking about a case. It easily could have been one of those times and John didn’t want to jump to conclusions. 

He went to bed early, thinking about ways to fix his relationship with Sherlock.

_John was standing on the street, phone up to his ear, listening to Sherlock say goodbye. No. Not again. He couldn’t see this again. If only he could get to Sherlock, then he could stop him. But he was trapped where he was, people on the street blocking him._

“John.”

_John looked around. That was Sherlock’s voice, but it wasn’t coming from the phone, where Sherlock was still saying goodbye._

“John. Wake up.”

_Wake up? Oh, this is a dream. Again. Good._

John opened his eyes and sat up to see Sherlock standing in his doorway. “You were crying again.”

John sighed, sitting up and gesturing to the bed. Sherlock sat down on it again, in the middle of the bed, closer to John than the previous night. “It’s going to keep happening every night.”

“I want to make it stop.”

“I don’t know that you can, Sherlock. If I knew how to make it stop, I would.”

“What made your dreams about Afghanistan stop?”

John frowned and looked up at him sharply He looked guilty. Ah, so Sherlock observing John when he was sleeping wasn’t a new thing.

“They stopped when you died.”

“The old worst thing that ever happened to you was replaced by the new?”

John nodded. “Nothing stops it.”

“I stopped it tonight.”

“I suppose that’s true. It didn’t get to the worst part of it tonight.”

“Interesting.”

For some reason, that made John angry. Sherlock didn’t get to treat him like some damned experiment. His pain wasn’t something that Sherlock was allowed to observe and learn from, especially considering that Sherlock caused the pain.

“I’m not an experiment, Sherlock.”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Then stop coming in here at night and treating me like one.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” Sherlock sounded despairing, like he had broken something.

“Then what are you doing?”

Sherlock didn’t answer at first. He looked at his hands, long elegant fingers intertwined in his lap. After a moment, his cheeks reddened slightly and he seemed to curl into himself as he explained his presence. “I don’t like hearing you cry. I wanted to make it stop.”

John softened at Sherlock’s words. He felt bad for assuming that Sherlock had motives other than caring for John. It hadn’t been an unreasonable assumption on his part, but he still felt guilty for it.

“Well, you made it stop. Not very practical, you coming in here every night to comfort me, though,” John said, trying to make a joke and failing miserably.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock stood abruptly and left the room.

“Wait, Sherlock!” John called after him, but he was gone and the door was shut. John put a hand to his forehead, feeling like he was going mad.

Why did every conversation have to end so suddenly? Whether the conversations ended well or poorly, Sherlock left without warning and usually without resolution. It was frustrating, but John didn’t know how to change it. More often than not, he said something that seemed to upset Sherlock or make Sherlock act like he had upset John.

John sighed and went back to sleep, still not understanding anything about his mad flatmate.

***

The next day was Friday and John met Greg for a drink at Greg’s odd flat. They met every few weeks for a night of drinking, a habit they had started during those dark two years when Sherlock was dead.

“Big night tomorrow, huh?” John asked once they were settled with drinks.

Greg looked surprised. “Sherlock told you?”

John nodded. “He didn’t go into much detail, but he said something about Mycroft having a nasty ex.”

Greg nodded. “To be honest, it has me quite angry, thinking of someone hurting Mycroft like that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were interested in Mycroft?”

Shrugging, Greg took a long drink from his glass. “It never came up. It would have been in poor taste to mention that I was pining after the brother of your…your friend, who had just killed himself.”

John considered that for a moment. So Greg knew that he was in love with Sherlock. It was probably obvious, considering people before had always confused them for a couple. It was too bad that John didn’t realize it then as well, when there might have been a chance for something. People rarely confused them for a couple now, it was clear that they were just friends. He didn’t feel like correcting Greg that they had only been friends. It seemed pointless now.

“Stop moping, John. I want to be happy tonight. I’ve finally got a date with a bloke I’ve been chasing for nearly a decade.”

“Okay, I’ll stop thinking about my miserable life and start thinking about all the sex you’ll soon be having.” He shuddered and took a drink to soothe his nerves.

Greg playfully pushed John’s shoulder. “Stop that. And anyway, I don’t think something like that will happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I get the impression that he might have issues with stuff like that.”

“With sex? Why?”

“Sherlock didn’t tell you everything that happened with Mycroft?”

“No, he just said ‘extremely abusive’.”

“I’m telling you this in confidence, because you’re my best mate.” John nodded. He wouldn’t tell anyone something that Greg told him about Mycroft. “It wasn’t just physical abuse, if you know what I mean.”

John stared at him. He had enough trouble imagining Mycroft Holmes being beaten by someone, but to imagine him being sexually abused was beyond belief. “That’s…awful.”

Greg nodded. “The bastard started dating Mycroft when he was seventeen. I did some research. Mycroft started uni early and he was his professor.” Greg was clenching his fists, clearly affected by this. John didn’t blame him. If he had learned that something like that had happened to Sherlock, he would hunt the man down and murder him with his bare hands.

“I found him,” Greg said suddenly.

“What?”

“He was arrested, at the time, but his prison term ended. I have his address.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Probably nothing. He emigrated. The bastard teaches university in America now.”

“If you decide to do anything about that, I’m with you, mate.”

Greg gave him a curious look. “You would do that? I thought you hated Mycroft.”

“He’s important to my best mate and my…flatmate. I understand how you might want to kill him. I probably would kill him.” He was getting dangerously close to admitting to something that he shouldn’t admit to in front of Greg, a subject that they skirted every so often, a dead cabbie whose killer they never caught.

“Of course you would,” Greg said with a smile, trying to play John’s words up as a joke. John smiled as well, nodding at him.

“So, no sex. Cuddling? I can’t imagine Mycroft Holmes cuddling.” He laughed, trying to picture it.

Greg shrugged. “I just want to be with him. I can’t explain it.”

“I understand.”

“How are things going with that? Between you two?”

John shook his head. “No idea. He’s been coming into my room at night when I have nightmares and we’ve been having the strangest conversations about it.”

“You need to talk to him. Tell him how you feel.”

“And risk losing him again? Absolutely not.” John swirled his drink, watching the ice spin around in the glass, and then finished it in one gulp.

“He’s in love with you, too, you know.”

It was the first time Greg had ever said anything like that to him. He had never mentioned that he knew how John felt about Sherlock, let alone claiming to know anything about how Sherlock felt about John.

“I don’t love him.”

“Bollocks. You’ve been in love with him for years. Everyone knows it except for you two.”

“I can’t be in love with him. Because if you’re wrong, if he doesn’t love me, and I say something, I will lose him. I’ll die if I lose him again. You won’t be able to stop me the next time, I’ll blow my bloody brains out.” The words rushed from his mouth before he could stop them, his eyes blazing as he stared at Greg.

And there it was. The first time either of them had ever mentioned the night they started getting together for drinks, when Greg stopped by John’s awful little flat that he took when he couldn’t stand 221B anymore and found John with his gun in his mouth, about to pull the trigger. Greg had wrestled the gun from John and taken it away for good, telling John that they were going to be best mates from then on and that Greg would take care of him. And he had, never mentioning that night again, nursing John through the worst time in his life, until John met Mary and pretended the pain was gone.

John had never told anyone about that night, had never mentioned it, even to Greg. When Sherlock noticed that the gun John had was different than John’s previous gun, John made up an excuse about what happened to it, getting lost in a move or something silly like that. Sherlock didn’t press the issue, even though he knew John was lying. Sherlock always knew when John was lying.

Greg was staring at John, looking scared. “You’re not going to lose him, John. He wants the same thing you do.”

John shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stood. “I need to go. I need a walk.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, John.”

The fear in Greg’s voice made John pause. “I’m not going to do anything. I just need a walk to clear my head. Good luck tomorrow, mate. I hope it goes well.”

He left, taking a long walk in the clear night air to settle his nerves. He didn’t like to allow himself to think of that dark night years before when he had nearly ended his own life. After it happened, he tried to deny to himself that it was real. He couldn’t forget the feeling of the gun in his mouth, however, and eventually admitted to himself that he had almost done something incredibly stupid. He tried to put it from his mind, certainly never admitting it to Sherlock. He didn’t want to know what Sherlock would do if he knew what John had done. Whatever he did, it certainly wouldn’t be good.

When John finally went home, he found Sherlock sitting in the living room, staring at something in his hands. “Interesting evening?” he asked, forcing a smile into his voice.

Sherlock stood and turned to John. His face was paler than John had ever seen it and he looked faintly ill. “Lestrade just left,” he said in a strangled voice.

It was then that John realized that Sherlock was holding John’s old gun. Not loaded, thankfully. Then it dawned on John why Sherlock looked so upset. He knew what John had nearly done.

“What did he tell you?” John’s voice sounded unnaturally high, like he might cry.

“Why would you kill yourself?”

“What?”

Sherlock’s eyes were huge and fearful. “Why would you kill yourself?”

“Why would you?” John closed his eyes, not wanting to revisit that period for the second time in one night. “You had killed yourself, you were gone, and I was left with nothing. Nothing.”

“I didn’t know. John, I had no idea.” Sherlock dropped the gun on the couch and took a step toward John.

“Of course you didn’t know, Sherlock. You were off having some bloody adventure! I know, I know, Moriarty was going to kill me and Greg and Mrs. Hudson. You did it to save us. You had to protect us from his web of bastard assassins. But you didn’t give me any idea that you were alive. You could have had Mycroft drop a hint or something. You could have done literally anything to let me know that I was mourning a man who wasn’t dead, that I hadn’t lost the man I—I…” he trailed off, chest heaving, as he stared at Sherlock.

“The man you what?”

“Never mind, Sherlock. You don’t understand and you never will. ‘Caring is not an advantage,’ right?”

“Right, John. Because I had to be away from you, too, never knowing what was happening here, if you were okay. And then I came back and I had to watch you get married. I had to stand by you and be your best man, which was the least that I owed you, considering I pretended to kill myself and then watched you mourning me.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘watched me mourn you’?” John was sure that Sherlock had never mentioned him watching John during that time.

Sherlock stared at him as if he weren’t quite sure what to say. “I saw you, at my grave. I was there.”

“Of course you were. Bloody brilliant. I pour my heart out to your grave, with you watching, and go home and nearly off myself and now you know about all of it.” 

John began pacing back and forth. He could kill Greg for telling Sherlock about this. What was he playing at? John kept all of Greg’s confidences, the least he could do was keep this secret.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Don’t do that,” John said, rounding on Sherlock. “Don’t apologize with that, ‘I never mean any harm’ face. Don’t look at me so sadly, like you’re injured by what you did to me, or worse, injured by me trying to put the pieces back together.”

Sherlock looked down at the floor. “I don’t know how to apologize to you in a way that means something. I just want to fix it.”

“Is that what you want? Because I can never tell what you want, what you actually want.”

“I thought what I wanted was obvious.”

“Not to me. Perhaps if I had a brain like yours I might be able to see it, but I have a tiny normal person brain, so I have no idea what’s obvious. I’m an idiot, remember?”

“John.” Sherlock looked up and moved closer, but John’s face was dark and his steps faltered.

“Say whatever you want to say, Sherlock. Say it now so we can get it all in the open. What is it that you want?”

“You, John. I want you.”

John froze. He was unsure if Sherlock meant what John thought he meant. He was normally very good at telling what Sherlock wanted, but this time he was completely confused. He wasn’t sure how to react, afraid that if he chose the wrong reaction, everything would be ruined. So he just stood there, staring Sherlock, watching him inch his way closer and closer.

Eventually, Sherlock was standing directly in front of John. It seemed like it had taken hours, but it couldn’t have actually been more than a few minutes. “This is what I want, John,” Sherlock murmured, putting his arms around John.  
John looked up at Sherlock’s face, so close to his own, and still didn’t know how to react. His fear of losing Sherlock stopped him from acting, even though what Sherlock wanted was becoming clear.

Sherlock bent his head down so his beautiful lips were mere inches from John’s. “This is what I want. Is it what you want?”

The next thing John knew, they were crashing together, grasping at each other desperately as their mouths met in a kiss that made John feel as if he were falling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter three! I'm going to get the rest up as soon as I can. It's all written, but my computer is being difficult (Windows 10 hates my Internet). Hopefully technology will cooperate. Enjoy!

When Greg woke up, Mycroft was curled up in his arms, Mycroft’s back pressed to Greg’s front. Greg smiled and tightened his arm around Mycroft, enjoy the sensation of holding him.

“This is nice,” Mycroft said quietly.

“I didn’t know you were awake.”

“Not for long.” Mycroft stretched and rolled over, smiling at Greg. “How did you sleep?”

“Very well. You?”

“The best I’ve slept in years.”

Greg couldn’t help himself: he reached out and caressed Mycroft’s cheek with his hand. Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “You are so beautiful,” Greg murmured, mesmerized by Mycroft.

Mycroft blushed and opened his eyes again. “I am sure no one has ever referred to me as beautiful before.”

“That’s because people are idiots.” Greg licked his lips, wishing he could kiss Mycroft.

“Do it,” Mycroft told him in a quiet voice.

“What?”

“Kiss me.”

Greg hesitated and then leaned forward, kissing Mycroft’s lips softly. He pulled away to see Mycroft’s reaction, pleasantly surprised to see that he was smiling. “Okay?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, he just leaned forward and kissed Greg. Greg let himself be kissed, afraid that if he deepened the kiss he might upset Mycroft.

Greg closed his eyes as Mycroft shifted so he was leaning over Greg. Mycroft tugged at Greg’s lower lip with his teeth, making Greg open his mouth. Mycroft tentatively explored Greg’s mouth with his tongue. It was very endearing, as if Mycroft had never kissed anyone before. When he had finished, he propped himself up on his elbow and looked at Greg.

“Everything okay?” Greg asked.

“You’re very sexy in the morning.”

Greg blushed. “Thank you.”

“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Take the compliment. Just accept it as true.”

“Even if I don’t believe the compliment is true, I trust that you’re not lying. I can accept you thinking I’m sexy.” Greg smiled. “I rather like it, actually.”

“I like that you find me attractive.” Mycroft was stiff and awkward.

Greg chuckled. “You need to relax.”

“I hate that I’m bad at this.”

“Trust me, you’re not bad at it.”

Mycroft looked at him like he was afraid that Greg was teasing him. “The kissing?”

“Not bad. Pretty good, actually.”

“Really?”

Greg curled his hand around Mycroft’s jaw and gently tugged on him so he bent for another kiss. This one lasted significantly longer, Mycroft exploring more boldly now. They ended up with Greg lying on his back, his arms wrapped around Mycroft’s waist while Mycroft leaned over Greg. Greg shifted slightly, rolling onto his side so they were side to side.

Mycroft pressed his body into Greg’s and then froze. Greg, realizing that his erection was pressing into Mycroft’s hip, shifted backwards hastily, pulling his arm off of Mycroft. “Are you okay?”

Mycroft had a strange look on his face, a mixture of anxiety and annoyance. “I apologize. I should be past this.”

“What?” Greg sat up. Mycroft was upset with himself? That would not do. “No, no. You should be exactly where you are.”

“It’s been fifteen years.”

“So? I don’t care if it’s been fifty years. Don’t be upset with yourself for where you are emotionally.”

“This was a bad idea,” Mycroft said, standing and looking around for his clothes.

Greg almost reached out to grab Mycroft’s arm and stop him, but he stopped himself. The last thing Mycroft needed was to be physically restrained. “Please stop,” Greg said in a soft voice.

Mycroft hesitated. At the look on Greg’s face, he sat on the bed. “My apologies.”

“Stop apologizing.” Greg tried to keep his face open, showing all of the emotions that he felt: the fear at the thought of losing Mycroft, the anguish at Mycroft’s pain, the joy that Mycroft made him feel.

Mycroft sighed and put his face in his hands. “What do I do? I have spent the last fifteen years avoiding relationships, trying to protect myself. Now I’ve found a man who is perfect for me, but I can hardly stand to be touched by him.”

“You stay here. Let me make you breakfast and sit with me. We talk about books and history and anything you need to talk about. If you want me to touch you, you tell me. If you don’t want me to touch you, you tell me.”

“Why would you want to be with someone who can’t — or won’t — have sex with you?”

“Mycroft, not everything is about sex.” Greg didn’t know how to explain his feelings about the situation without coming on too strong. “I can be happy with you without ever having sex with you.”

“How?”

Greg chuckled. “I have a very experienced right hand.” Mycroft almost smiled at that, but then he looked confused again.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you give up a part of relationship that most people think is so important?”

“I have been in many relationships in my life. I’ve been dating for nearly thirty years and my partners had run the gamut from overly needy to completely mad. I have never met someone I related to as well as I relate to you. I’ve never spent hours talking to someone like I can to you. I’m attracted to you, but if you only ever sit in the chair next to mine and hold my hand or kiss me occasionally, that’s fine. I felt at peace last night, holding you. I felt complete, for the first time in my life. I’m not going to lose that sort of companionship over something as silly as sex.”

Mycroft watched Greg making his impassioned speech, his face as unreadable as ever. When Greg had finished, Mycroft took Greg’s hand in his hand and kissed it.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I think you deserve much better than me,” Greg said, sighing in relief as it looked like Mycroft had decided to stay.

“I have the emotional intelligence of a teaspoon.” Mycroft said in a despairing voice.

“Well, I have the emotional intelligence of a man who spent the better part of his young adulthood in therapy. I know enough about emotions for the both of us. And you know enough about everything else that we’re all set.” He stood, smiling cheerfully.

“Breakfast?”

Greg made them some eggs and toast, while Mycroft sat at the small table and watched. “I don’t believe anyone but my mother has ever made me breakfast before,” he said with a smile as they tucked in.

“Well, don’t expect something your mother might make. I’m sure she’s a much better cook than I am.”

“Some platitude about the thought being what matters is coming to mind.”

“Luckily, we aren’t platitude people.”

“You strike me as the sort to appreciate things such as that.” Mycroft favored Greg with an appraising look before breaking down and grinning.

“You tried to be cutting, but you simply managed to be adorable.”

“I suppose I’ll have to settle for that.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Greg wondered what Mycroft was thinking as he stared at his plate. He didn’t have long to wonder, because Mycroft looked up with a serious expression on his face.

“Do you want to hear the story? What happened in the basement?”

Greg’s breath caught in his throat. He never could have guess that’s what Mycroft was thinking. He wondered if he had given any indication of being curious about what happened that week that Mycroft was held captive. It was something that he had idly wondered about in the week since he learned of the episode, but he never would have asked to hear about it and he certainly didn’t want to make Mycroft relive it.

“If you want to tell me, I want to hear it. If not, that’s fine too.”

Mycroft kept his face trained on his plate, his voice expressionless as he spoke. “Things had been bad for a while. Some people knew, but very few. Anthea was an intern with me at the time. She was eighteen and had walked in on me after a particularly vicious fight. She didn’t say a word, she just fetched some ice and bandages for me. Sherlock knew, of course. Twenty years old and just at the start of his drug experimentation. That’s when he started to despise me, when he realized the state I was in for something as silly to him as a relationship. He might have respected me if I had been in search of something intellectual. He never understood that being in a relationship like that was like a drug to me.

“I was seventeen and chubby, alone and miserable at university. When the relationship started, I was in such a state, I didn’t think I would survive it. Before I knew it, this sexy older man wanted me. Not only that, with my newfound confidence, I was recruited for an internship with the government. When I was set on my career path at twenty, I thought my life couldn’t get much more perfect. Then he realized how much power I had and he needed to put me in my place, to control me. It started small, a slap here and there. Then it moved on to beatings when I said the wrong thing. When it moved on to other forms of abuse, I thought I was in so deep that there was nothing I could do. It became so normal that I never thought I could do anything.

“I should have seen it coming. I was regularly being promoted and with each one, the abuse worsened. When I received the promotion to the position under my current one, he snapped. I dreaded telling him about it. I should have been happy, but I was scared instead.

“The morning after I told him, I woke up in some sort of cellar. There was one small window and a door that I couldn’t budge. He came to me after over a day. I begged him to let me out, but he said that he wouldn’t. He said that I was dangerous, that I was bad. The world would be better off without me.

“I had learned to withstand torture in my career training. I could fight, but he deprived me of food and water before he came in, so I was already weak. I could stand the physical torture. It was the emotional torture that destroyed me. I loved him. He was my everything and I couldn’t understand why he would do that to me.

“By the end of the week, when they found me, I wanted to die. I couldn’t see wanting to live anymore, wanting to be in a world where the only man who could love me would do that to me. I believed him when he said that no one else could love me. I still believe him. I’m so broken now. It’s been fifteen years and I should be over it, but I’m not.

“I almost killed him when he was released from prison. I could have. Instead I had Anthea pay him a visit. That’s why he’s out of the country. I don’t know what she said, but I know that she would have loved to kill him.”

Mycroft sighed and covered his face with his hands. He didn’t say anything for several minutes and Greg was unsure of what to say. When Mycroft finally looked up at him, his eyes were completely expressionless, void of any emotion. Greg recognized the look as the expression his birth mother always wore when his father came up in conversation, the look of someone who has decided to deal with negative emotions by blocking out all emotion.

Greg didn’t know how to react to Mycroft any better than he knew how to react to his mother, so he just took a deep breath and looked at Mycroft with as much love as he could muster. 

“I don’t want pity.” Mycroft looked at Greg hard, almost daring him to say that he pitied him.

Greg shrugged. “I don’t pity you.”

“I don’t want you to try to fix me.” He crossed his arms defiantly, like he was challenging Greg.

“I don’t want to fix you.”

“I don’t know what I want.” Finally, some honesty about how he felt. That, Greg could work with. He was great at being honest about his feelings.

“I want to be with you.”

“Why?” There is was again, that question. Mycroft always wanted to know why and Greg never knew what to tell him. He decided on a different tactic.

“Because I’m in love with you.” As soon as Greg said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Mycroft’s mouth dropped open and he looked at Greg like he was afraid. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say that, it just slipped out. I really didn’t mean to say it like that, so soon. I’m sorry.” He was babbling, but he didn’t know what else to say or do.

Mycroft took a deep breath and stood. “I need to leave now.”

“Please don’t leave. Please stay and talk to me. Forget that I said that. Please.” 

If he thought it would help, Greg would have fallen to his knees to beg Mycroft to stay. He understood that Mycroft was scared and he didn’t want Mycroft to leave. He felt like he had just convinced Mycroft that a relationship might be good and if he left now, it would all be ruined. His babbling did nothing to dissuade Mycroft, however, and Greg stood by helplessly while Mycroft disappeared into the bedroom to dress himself and then left with barely another word to Greg.

Greg didn’t know what to do with himself. He considered going after Mycroft, but he decided against that. He had cocked everything up by being too emotional too soon, the last thing he needed was to chase after the man and drive him even further away. He settled for attempting to read his favorite book for a few hours and then doing some work around the flat, cleaning everything.

When he finished cleaning the kitchen and found he had nothing else to do, he sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands. He sent a text to Mycroft, receiving no reply. He sent a text to Anthea, explaining to her that he had messed up and asking for her advice, but didn’t receive a reply to that either. Finally, despairing of fixing the situation, he placed a call to John, what had happened pouring out of him in a rush of emotion and tears.

John, ever the good friend, said that he would be right over.

When John arrived, he took one look at Greg and lifted him up, setting him on his feet. “Up you get, mate. We’re going out for a meal.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to figure out how to fix this.”

“We can talk about that over some food. I need to eat and I’m certain you haven’t eaten in hours. So come on. We’ll get Chinese and find a way out of this problem. Things will seem better in no time,” he said cheerfully.

Greg stared at the John Watson standing in front of him, a completely changed man from the angry, borderline suicidal John he had seen a few days before. “You and Sherlock…”

John bit his lip. “I wasn’t going to say anything. Is it that obvious?”

Greg felt like he had been punched in the gut. Even bloody Sherlock Holmes could get himself into a relationship without ruining everything. Greg really was an idiot, like Sherlock had been claiming for so many years.

“I’m happy for you.”

John grinned. “Good attempt at a lie, Greg. Now come on. Food time. You’ll feel much better about things with a meal in you.”

Over dinner, Greg told John everything that had happened over the last day, leaving out the details of what Mycroft had told him. John listened to all of it, keeping his face neutral. When it was over, John let out a breath and put his fork down.

“That’s a tough situation. What if he’s simply not ready for a relationship?”

Greg shrugged despondently. “I suppose I would have to accept that. It seems silly, to be so upset over a relationship that I ruined before it even started.”

“It isn’t silly. You’ve known Mycroft for a long time. You share a connection. I knew right away with Sherlock, it’s not unreasonable that you could know you love Mycroft after knowing him for what, eight years?”

“I just wish I knew what to do to make him see that I could be good for him.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything you can do. You might have to wait longer. Are you willing to do that? To wait for him?”

“There’s never been anyone like him. I’ve waited eight years, I would easily wait eight more.”

“Then there’s your answer. It’s not a good one, but it’s an answer. Give him time. He’ll come around.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“That’s something you’ll have to decide at some point. Either you keep waiting and hoping and risk spending the rest of your life alone, or you give up.”

When they parted ways, Greg didn’t feel any better than he had earlier in the day. He felt calmer, like he could accept anything that Mycroft decided about their relationship. He felt like his heart was breaking into a million little pieces, never to be put back together.

Before he went to bed, he decided to send Mycroft one more text. He didn’t want to harass the man too much, he knew that would never help his case, but he decided that one more text message couldn’t hurt anything.

He stared at his phone for nearly an hour, trying to figure out just what to say to Mycroft. What do you say to the man you love to stop him from closing the door on your relationship? Finally, he settled on the only thing he could think to say.

**I’ll wait for you until you’re ready.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is weird chronologically as well. It takes place partially before and partially after chapter three. Hopefully it's clear in the story. :-)
> 
> Also, this is the first Johnlock smut I've ever written! I hope everyone likes it!

John ended up sitting in his chair with a lap full of Sherlock. He had his hands threaded in Sherlock’s curls, which was convenient for tilting his head up to explore his jaw and neck. Sherlock moaned as John bit and sucked him in different sensitive spots, which was the hottest thing John had ever seen.

“Are you always so responsive?” John asked between bites.

“I have no idea,” Sherlock gasped, gripping John’s jumper tightly.

John hesitated. They had flirted with a very important discussion a few days earlier, but it hadn’t been important to finish it. He released Sherlock’s hair and sat back to study him. “What exactly is your experience?”

“I’ve experienced many things, John, you know that,” Sherlock said evasively, looking over John’s shoulder at the wall.

“You know very well what I mean. You said that you’ve rarely been interested in people and that the first you decided against dating because of Mycroft. Does that mean that you’re--”

“Don’t, John,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Don’t what? It’s not a bad word, Sherlock. You’re a virgin.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I thought you didn’t care what people think.” John couldn’t keep the teasing from his voice, smiling.

“I care what you think.” Sherlock looked perfectly miserable. 

That wouldn’t do at all, John thought, watching Sherlock look so sad. It was a happy day for John, Sherlock could not go into one of his sulks. “I think it’s sexy,” John said, lowering his voice.

“What?”

John chuckled at Sherlock’s look of surprise. He always liked surprising Sherlock. “The fact that no one has touched you that way is incredibly sexy.” He leaned forward and kissed one of the marks he had left on Sherlock. “You’re pure.”

Sherlock snorted. “There’s nothing pure about me.”

“Oh, is that so?” John asked, sliding his hand under Sherlock’s shirt, which had become untucked while they had snogged. He let his hands tickle Sherlock’s side, making him squirm and nearly fall off of John’s lap.

“Stop that,” Sherlock said, trying to sound stern, but unable to keep the smile off his face. “This is serious.”

“My apologies.” John tugged him down for another kiss. He quite liked the kissing bit. He had never been one for snogging, but with Sherlock, it was endlessly entertaining. “We should discuss this, though.”

“What exactly is there to discuss?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes as though annoyed, which made John tickle him again.

“Well, we need to discuss how far we’re going to go physically. What you want.”

“What do you want?”

John smiled at the suddenly worried expression on Sherlock’s face. “I want whatever you’re willing to give, love,” he murmured, caressing Sherlock’s face.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, if you want to keep it at snogging, okay. If you want to add in some cuddling, wonderful. If you want to take this into the bedroom,” he made his voice low and sexy, “that’s fantastic, too.”

Sherlock jumped off of John’s lap and he was momentarily worried that he had done something wrong. He laughed in relief and amusement when Sherlock seized his hand and pulled him to his feet, leading him to Sherlock’s bedroom. “I choose the bedroom,” Sherlock said, closing the door behind them and turning to crowd John against it.

John moaned as Sherlock pushed their hands up above John’s head, holding his wrists tightly as he pressed his body into John’s like he was trying to grind him into the door. He liked that Sherlock was taking initiative, but he had his own thoughts about what should be happening. He wrapped his leg around one of Sherlock’s using it to throw him off balance and catching Sherlock as he stumbled and nearly fell. He pulled Sherlock’s thighs around him, lifting the taller man easily and spinning so he had Sherlock pressed against the door, pressing kisses to his jaw.

Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John’s waist. “I’ve had fantasies like this,” he moaned, running his long fingers through John’s short hair.

“Have you? And exactly what happens in these fantasies?”

“You tell me, John. You’re always in charge.”

John groaned with how sexy that was. He had no idea what Sherlock fantasized about him, let alone that their fantasies could be so similar. He couldn’t count the number of times he had wanked while thinking about fucking Sherlock against the wall or ordering him around. “So you want me to control you, hm?”

“I know you want that, too, John. I can see it when I won’t do what you want. The look on your face when you try to make me eat and I refuse or when I leave a mess and won’t clean it up. You want to grab me by the hair and fuck me into the mattress.”

John couldn’t take it anymore. He carried Sherlock to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, grabbing Sherlock’s hair and pulling his head back so they could see each other’s faces. “Strip, now,” he growled. He watched Sherlock’s eyes for any sign of hesitance, fully prepared to call it off if Sherlock looked anything other than fully committed.

Sherlock just grinned and scrambled off of John’s lap, unbuttoning his shirt with tantalizing slowness. John shucked his own shirt and jumper, kicking his trousers off so he was left sitting there in his pants, watching Sherlock slowly, torturously, undress.

After what seemed like ages, Sherlock stood in front of John completely naked, erect and unashamed. John licked his lips as he ran his eyes over the beautiful man in front of him. He stood and picked him up, laying him reverently down on the bed. “You are so unbelievably sexy,” he whispered, brushing a curl from Sherlock’s face as he lay next to him and then brushing his thumb over Sherlock’s lips and up along a cheekbone.

Sherlock smiled and leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “I like when you touch me like that.”

John leaned in for another kiss, his free hand trailing down Sherlock’s chest and stomach, finally curling around his cock. “What about like this?” he asked as Sherlock gasped at the touch.

“Mm. That’s nice as well.” Sherlock kept his eyes squeezed shut as John began long, slow strokes.

“You tell me if you don’t like something, yeah?” John was worried that he might go too far and Sherlock wouldn’t say something because of a ridiculous reason that only made sense in the expansive mind of Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock, answer me,” John said when he didn’t receive a response other than moaning, momentarily stilling his hand. 

Sherlock growled and bucked his hips. “Yes, yes. Anything you want. Just don’t stop that.”

John chuckled. “Always so demanding.” He resumed his stroking, picking up the pace. He kissed Sherlock, pressing into Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, taking advantage of the distraction of Sherlock’s building orgasm to explore.

Sherlock bucked his hips again, clearly getting close. John did his best to hold him in place with his body as he stroked fast and hard, moaning into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock’s cries were drowned in John’s mouth as he came, his hips jerking spasmodically as his seed covered John’s hand. John stroked him through it, making his kisses gentle as Sherlock’s mouth went slack. John slid off the bed, going into the loo to wash his hand and fetch a wet flannel, which he used to gently wipe Sherlock clean. When he climbed back into the bed, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s middle, resting his head on his chest. John chuckled and encircled his arms around Sherlock, burying his face in sweet-smelling curls.

“What about you?” Sherlock mumbled, fighting sleep.

John reached down and pulled the blanket on top of them before, hugging Sherlock tightly to him. “Sh, love. Go to sleep.”

“But you--you didn’t…” a yawn interrupted Sherlock.

“We can worry about that later. Sleep now.”

Sherlock mumbled something else, but John just shushed him again. He didn’t mind not getting off just then, he was rapturously happy to fall asleep holding Sherlock.

For the first time in years, John didn’t dream of Sherlock falling. He had sweet dreams full of laughter and love that made him awaken with a smile.

Until he realized that he was alone in Sherlock’s bed. He sat up in a panic, wondering if he had done something wrong to make Sherlock leave. “Sherlock?” he called, looking around for his clothes.

Sherlock came to the doorway carrying two cups of tea, still looking rumpled from sleeping. His smile faded slightly when he saw the look on John’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought you left. I thought I ruined everything.” John accepted his cup of tea with a smile, relaxing.

Sherlock chuckled. “Everything is wonderful, John. I’m not going anywhere.” He climbed into the bed next to John and sipped his tea.

John watched him. Sherlock looked happier than John had ever seen him. Sherlock wasn’t the sort to be cheerful, even if he giggled and joked while on a case. This was a more sedate happiness, the sort that made his eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that made John want to kiss them.

“If I had known you were going to stare at me like a lovesick puppy, I might have had second thoughts,” Sherlock told him, the corners of his mouth barely curving as he tried to suppress his smile.

“You love it,” John said, bumping his shoulder gently into Sherlock’s.

“I love you.” Sherlock glanced at John nervously to see his reaction.

John was shocked. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock was the first to say that. Sherlock had spent their entire relationship trying to convince John that he didn’t have feelings, it was strange to hear such strong words from him. He supposed it made sense, in a strange way, that one of the few times Sherlock spoke about feelings in a positive way was to say something so strong and surprising.

Sherlock cleared his throat and John realized that he was just staring at Sherlock, smiling dumbly.

“I love you, too, you idiot. Of course I do.”

“Good. That’s good.” Sherlock looked at his tea and John thought he saw some unusual moisture in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Speaking of good, how are you feeling about last night? Was everything okay? I didn’t cross any lines?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened almost comically. “Is that what you think you did? How could you think that? You were perfect. Amazing. Brilliant.”

John blushed. He really liked when Sherlock complimented him. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I just wanted to make sure.” He shrugged, embarrassed that he was so worried.

Sherlock laughed. “Do you ever stop being the best man ever, John?”

“I guess not. Though I do have to make up for your behavior.”

“Ah. It’s my responsibility to be the not nice one. I nearly forgot.” He took John’s tea out of his hands and set both down. “Since that is the case, I suppose I’m the one who is responsible to remember that you never got off last night.”

John shrugged. “It isn’t that important, Sherlock.”

“Well, it is to me. Lie down.”

“Okay, bossy,” John said with a smile, complying with Sherlock’s order.

Sherlock ran his hand over John’s chest and down his stomach, hooking his fingers under the waistband of John’s pants and tugging them down. John lifted his hips to help, watching Sherlock lick his lips as John’s cock came into view.

It was already erect, John getting hard at his proximity to a sweet, sleep-rumpled Sherlock. Sherlock lay on his stomach on John’s legs, looking at his cock carefully.

“Making observations?” John asked, flexing a muscle so his cock bounced slightly.

“Something like that,” Sherlock murmured, pushing it all the way down onto John’s stomach and letting go, watching it wave back and forth.

John laughed. “Oy. Stop that, you.”

Sherlock smiled at him briefly before opening his mouth and taking John’s entire cock in his mouth.

John gasped, almost jackknifing in surprise. “You don’t have to…” he trailed off, closing his eyes as Sherlock showed just how talented his mouth was.

Moaning, John stroked Sherlock’s curls. Throughout the years, he had had so many dirty dreams about Sherlock’s mouth. He was right when he guessed that Sherlock’s mouth, so brilliant while speaking, would be talented in other ways. The combination of

John’s sexual frustration after living sexless with Sherlock for so long and his excitement at finally feeling the warm wetness hidden behind those beautiful lips, John came very quickly, shouting Sherlock’s name and opening his eyes just in time to lock eyes with Sherlock as he swallowed around John’s cock.

Sherlock pulled his mouth off of John, licking his lips. He cocked his head to the side, thinking. “Oddly delicious,” he announced, crawling back to the head of the bed and flopping down next to John.

John pulled him into a kiss, giggling. “You’re oddly delicious.”

***

They spent the next two days in bed, only leaving for food and the loo, including taking both a bath and a shower together (experiments to see which they preferred, Sherlock claimed; John was convinced that Sherlock just liked having John wash his hair).

When John received Greg’s frantic phone call, Sherlock announced that it was just as well that John needed to leave, as it was high time Sherlock resumed his experiments. John almost believed him, until Sherlock kept pulling John back for just one more kiss before finally letting him leave.

Returning after dinner with Greg with takeaway for Sherlock, John sat and watched as Sherlock attacked the food ravenously. John had discovered that the best way to get Sherlock to eat and sleep was to shag him senseless; Sherlock had eaten and slept more in the past two days that John had ever seen.

“So what foolishness is Mycroft spouting now?” Sherlock asked, finally looking up from his dinner.

“Nothing, actually. Greg said he loved him and Mycroft left.”

Sherlock shook his head. “He always was an idiot when it came to men.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to be a bit more understanding,” John said, a little annoyed. He wasn’t really annoyed with Sherlock, he was frustrated that his happiness had come at the same time that his best friend was in so much pain.

“I can’t understand it. I never could. I didn’t understand it when he let that man treat him that way, I don’t understand it now that he won’t let himself be happy with a good man.”

“Emotions are funny like that. They don’t always make sense.”

Sherlock watched John for a moment. “Do you think your love for me makes sense?”

John smiled. “Of course it does.”

“We’re meant to be?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.

John snorted. “Hardly. You and I are well suited to each other. We complement each other and we enjoy each other’s company. We’ve built a relationship built on companionship and common interests. Adding in sexual attraction just decides it that we should be in a romantic relationship.”

“You complete me, John Watson.”

“What, no comment about oxytocin and a weak mind?”

“Of course not. I don’t have a weak mind and I’m in love with you.”

“I’ve corrupted the great Sherlock Holmes. Surely now you will lose your ability to read people and become my helpless sex slave, useful only for my physical pleasure.”

“Speaking of physical pleasure, I did some research while you were gone…” Sherlock stood and held out his hand to John.

John took it and let himself be led to the bedroom. “Did you happen to look up the refractory period of middle aged men? That might be some interesting reading while I take a nap.”

“Luckily for you, my refractory period is quite short.”

John let out an exaggerated sigh. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to find a way to manage.” He pulled Sherlock to him for a tight hug, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“And I love you, John. Now, about that next orgasm…”


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft looked up as Anthea entered his office with a tea tray. She had a disapproving look on her face that he ignored. He wasn’t interested in her opinion on the subject. She had been sulking since the previous day, when he called for his car outside Greg’s flat.

“You need to talk to him,” she said quietly.

“I don’t believe I asked for your opinion,” he said coldly.

Anthea stared at him. Mycroft rarely spoke to her harshly and he had never said anything like that to her. “Perhaps you need to hear it, whether you wanted it or not.”

“Do I need to remind you of your place?”

“Do I need to remind you that I’m the one who picked you up and put you back together after your last relationship? After fifteen years of loyalty, I believe you owe me better than that, sir.”

Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes. “Quite right, Anthea. My apologies. After the loyalty you have shown me, I should allow you to express your opinion without attacking you for it. I always value your advice.”

She smiled, reaching out and patting his hand. “Just consider this, sir. Good men are hard to find and you’ve found one. Don’t let the worst of humanity scare you away from the best.”

She poured his tea and left him. He sipped at it, taking a break from his work to consider her words. Anthea was very opinionated and she was usually right. She was also overprotective of Mycroft, which had initially made her dislike Greg. The fact that she had come around to lobbying for Mycroft to jump into a relationship with him spoke volumes about Greg.

“What do you want?” he asked, not looking up from his tea, as the door opened and Sherlock walked in.

“To tell you that you’re still an idiot.”

“Ah, I have so missed our lovely chats. Decided you were done mooning after John, did you?” He looked up and saw the happiness written all over Sherlock’s face. “Ah, you finally shagged him,” he sneered.

“I did. It’s been quite lovely. Until your boyfriend interrupted us and dragged John away to cry about you. Ah, I forgot. Not your boyfriend. Just someone who’s pining after you.”

“Is he okay?” Mycroft asked, feeling his veneer of nastiness slipping and concern poking through.

“Why do you care? You’re the one who broke his heart. You were right, caring wasn’t an advantage for poor Lestrade.”

“You know nothing about it, Sherlock.”

“Of course not. I never let myself experience anything because I saw what happened to you. I let John get married because I was so terrified. I clearly couldn’t understand how you feel.”

“Yes, I’m sure your very strong fraternal sympathies are to blame for you being an idiot as regards John Watson.” His voice lacked the bite he normally used to keep Sherlock at arm’s length, but he didn’t have the inclination to fix it.

“Believe what you want Mycroft.”

“Fortunately, I have no interest in anything you have to say, so I have to believe nothing. You may go now.”

Sherlock leaned over Mycroft’s desk. “Lestrade is a good man. He won’t hurt you. While you’re trying to protect yourself, you’re hurting him. He deserves better than that.” His voice was soft and full of feeling.

Mycroft was so shocked by the obvious emotion in his brother’s voice that Sherlock was gone by the time he recovered enough to make any sort of reply. He wondered just what John had done to Sherlock to make him so in favor of emotional ties. He supposed it would only be a matter of time before the relationship imploded, leaving Sherlock an emotional wreck.

His phone chimed a text message alert and he smiled at how predictable his brother was. Even when he got the last word, he had to add something else.

**Even if the relationship ends badly, at least I got to experience the joy of having the relationship. SH**

This surprised Mycroft a bit. It was a bit too Tennyson for Sherlock. A joke about love making Sherlock quoting Victorian poets popped into his mind and he chuckled, thinking about how amusing Greg would find it. He picked up his phone to text it to him and realized that he couldn’t.

He looked at the last text he had received from Greg.

**I’ll wait for you until you’re ready.**

That was perfectly in character. So like Greg to know exactly the right thing to say. There was no pressure, no entreaties to reconsider. Just a simple acknowledgment that Mycroft needed time.

Greg always understood Mycroft’s needs perfectly. When Sherlock had come back from the dead and Greg had found out that Mycroft had known the whole time, he listened to Mycroft’s explanation of why he hadn’t told him the truth silently. When it was over, Greg just nodded and said that he understood and was happy that everything had turned out for the best. There were no accusations about being manipulative, like when John found out that Mycroft knew, no reproachful looks that made Mycroft feel guilty.

And then there was John. Mycroft knew everything that Greg had done for John. He had saved the man, ignoring his own mourning to put the needs of a friend first. It was so perfectly Greg to do, to take care of others instead of himself.

That was what Greg was doing now, what he had been doing the entire last week. Mycroft had noticed Greg restraining himself, being careful not to do anything that might remind Mycroft of his past. Greg had mostly ignored what he wanted to try and please Mycroft. And what had Mycroft done? What he had always done, thought about himself and his needs. He focused so much on what he couldn’t give Greg that he hadn’t considered what he could give Greg. He had thought that Greg would obviously put his need for sex on a back burner to worry about Mycroft’s needs. He couldn’t possibly be happy with that, Mycroft had told himself. But when had Greg ever lied to anyone? Certainly he had never been anything but honest to Mycroft. If he said that he wasn’t worried about sex, then Mycroft should have accepted it. And when he said that he loved Mycroft, when those feelings of being manipulated by his need to be loved came rushing back, why had Mycroft run away? Greg was the least manipulative person Mycroft had ever known.

Mycroft was an idiot.

He jumped up, sending a message to his driver to get the car in front of the building. When he walked out of his office, Sherlock was talking to Anthea, a dark look on his face. They both looked up, surprised.

“Sir?” Anthea asked.

“I have some pressing business. It might take some time. I will be in touch.”

“Can I assist in any way?” she asked excitedly. Of course she knew what his business was.

He hesitated. There might be a better way to do this than rushing over to Greg’s house and proclaiming his undying love. “Actually, yes…”

***

Greg flipped through the pages of a book miserably. All of the books that he had and none of them were comforting in his position. There had been nothing from Mycroft. He had spent a miserable day at work, which had just made his mood more foul. Shouting at people rarely cheered him up and no one seemed to be doing anything right, so there was a lot of shouting.

There was a knock at the door and he ignored it. He knew it wasn’t Mycroft, so why bother? It opened and he cursed his brilliant idea to give John a key to the flat in case of emergencies.

“Dinner time!” John said cheerfully.

“I already ate.”

“You are a terrible liar, Greg. Get up. I feel like Italian tonight.”

“I said no, John,” Greg said, glaring at him. Why couldn’t John just leave him alone to mope?

John’s smile faded somewhat and he took a step closer to Greg, narrowing his eyes. “You didn’t let me mope when Sherlock was gone. You forced me to get up and leave my flat. You saved me. Now it’s time for me to return the favor and you are going to do as I say.”

“Make me, John.”

“Fine, I will.” John took the book out of Greg’s hand, tossed it on the side table and practically picked Greg up, dragging him out of the flat.

“What are you playing at?” Greg asked, trying to dig his heels into the ground. John was too strong for him, though, and managed to get him out of the flat. Once they were outside, Sherlock appeared out of nowhere and grabbed Greg’s other arm.

“You two are mad!” Greg said, finally going along with them and walking between them, held tightly by the arms.

When they reached the restaurant, Greg balked. “No, I’m not going in there.” 

It was the restaurant where he had taken Mycroft on their date. He wasn’t sure if John and Sherlock were going for tough love to get him over Mycroft, but he wasn’t interested in it.

John and Sherlock exchanged a look and then lifted him, carrying him into the restaurant. They deposited him inside and quickly turned and left before he could react.

“Those two cannot leave well enough alone, can they?” Mycroft asked from the center of the restaurant, where he sat at a table.

Greg looked around. The restaurant was empty except for Mycroft, who sat at a table set for dinner. Mycroft stood, looking nervous.

“You really need to stop kidnapping people, Mycroft,” Greg said finally, attempting a smile.

“I considered giving it up, but I’m giving too much up this week.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I thought I might give up being miserable. Being happy seems more interesting. Sherlock quoted Tennyson at me today.”

“Did he really?”

“Well, he paraphrased. Will you join me for a meal?”

“I suppose I’m already here.”

“It is your favorite restaurant.”

“Okay,” Greg said with a smile.

“Wonderful.” Mycroft pulled a chair out and Greg sat in it, unused to such attention. He smiled at Anthea, who appeared to fill their wine glasses.

“I have your approval, then?” he asked her.

“You aren’t the worst he could do,” Anthea said, but she smiled warmly at him before vanishing again.

“Did you rent out the restaurant for a night to get my attention? You could have just knocked on my door.” He smiled at Mycroft as he sipped his wine, feeling deliriously happy.

“I thought the grand romantic gesture would be appropriate.”

“I suppose I’m lucky you just rented a restaurant.”

“That’s right, it could have been worse.”

Greg chuckled. “I’m sorry I nearly scared you off.”

“I’m sorry I was so easy to scare.” Mycroft leaned forward and took Greg’s hand.

“I should have been more sensitive.”

“Greg, it’s not possible for you to have been more sensitive to my needs. You bent over backwards to accommodate me.”

Greg shrugged. “That’s what you do for people you love.”

“You still love me, then?”

“Always.” Greg was a bit nervous, considering what happened the last time he told Mycroft that he loved him, but he didn’t see the sense in holding back.

Mycroft smiled. “Good, because I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone liked this one!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
